Breakdown (30 page)

I'm going to give myself five minutes before I remember.

I'm going to take a deep breath before I tell them.

I'm going to try to imagine for the last time that running brook, that hazelnut forest.

Those bees in the wild white clover.

Then I'm going to tell them.

Tell them that, after all we've been through.

When at last we're speeding north.

There is no cottage.

No hidden valley.

No pond with ducks.

The wagon bed lurches from side to side. Best to lie down. Lenny tries to stand, falls, slips dangerously near the edge. Tarquin hauls him back. We huddle together, lodging the blanket beneath us and round as much of us as we can. We link arms, and clutch the plastic over us. The wind struggles to tear it off. It's so cold.

An arctic gale races down the track. Thick white air. Frozen steam. Droplets of ice bruise my face. Every time we brush through undergrowth, frost showers us. Lenny clings to me. I pull him in tighter. Tarquin presses close on the other side. Keep Lenny tucked in the middle.

The train rattles. We lie as still as possible, too scared to move. Even when my hands and feet grow numb.
Don't give yourself away. Don't let anyone see.
The wagon beds slide sideways on the bends.
Oh God, don't let us lose our grip
. The track's so old. Maybe in places it's gone. They repair it, surely? Maybe they don't. Some bits of track throw us violently sideways. Screech of metal. I hang on. My shoulders ache. My poor legs.

We head north.

‘We're getting closer, ain't we, Missa?' says Lenny. I press his cold hand. I take a deep breath in.

‘Lenny,' I say.

He looks at me. His eyes grey-brown, round.

My heart thuds. I pull at Tarquin's arm. We curve out of a bend. The train flings us sideways.

‘What?' he shouts.

The roar of the train rushes in on us, whips words away.

‘Got – something to tell you.'

‘Wh-at?' he yells again.

‘Tell you.' I must tell them, before my courage fails.

‘I'm OK,' says Tarquin.

‘Not that.'

He smiles. I see the warmth in his eyes.

‘Thank you, Melissa –' Tarquin screams into the wind. ‘For rescue.'

I try again. ‘It's about the cottage.'

The steam sweeps round, shrouds us in freezing fog. His hand catches mine. He holds it. ‘I owe you.'

It's no good.

I can't continue against such odds.

Instead, think.

They're going to follow us. Those were soldiers on the bridge. They'll take the next train.

Could we jump? When
is
the next train? What's the schedule?

Trains arrive at Newcastle, are loaded with coal, go back to the covered farms? Freight beds are split off, sent on to London. Empty beds are shackled back on the engine. One food wagon. Return to Newcastle – get loaded up again. Round trip – how long?

Does it stop on the way?

And is there more than one train? Harold should have told me.
Why didn't I ask him?
If there are more, do all trains go to exactly the same places? Harold was too busy feathering his own nest. He got us out. But he could have done more.

Can we jump?

‘We'll get off when we stop going north,' Tarquin shouts over the rattle. He looks up at the sky.

‘We gonna stop going north?' asks Lenny.

Tarquin looks at me. ‘Scotland's always north, right?'

I don't know. I'm supposed to know. ‘The coalfields are in the north,' I say. ‘Maybe we can get shelter there, before we cross Hadrian's Wall.'

‘We mustn't stop,' says Lenny.

‘We'll keep going,' says Tarquin. ‘No people, no stopping.'

Lenny rests his head against me. He's shivering. His teeth chatter. I unbutton Nan's coat, slip it round him. It flaps in the wind, tugs at my shoulders.

I try to remind myself that Lenny would have been traded to the Limehouse gang. He'd be there, a sad little skivvy, all dreaming gone.

Did I dream when I was little? Was there time? Sweeping out the fire, selecting half-burned cinders to reuse, sifting ash for the garden, mixing the rest with cooking fat to make soap, checking on the plants, being a busy bee – that's what Nan called it – ‘being a busy bee', pollinating the flowers by hand. ‘Melissa,' she'd say. ‘My busy bee. Melissa, my little honey.'

The train slows, takes a long curve.

‘We still going north, ain't we?' says Lenny.

‘Yep,' replies Tarquin.

‘We'll be OK?'

‘We will.'

The light's fading. I can just make out Tarquin's profile.

‘Try to rest,' he says.

The train slows. Screech of metal brakes. We must have fallen asleep. We're shunting into a siding. There's lights. Dazzling. Bright. I screw my eyes up.

‘
Tarquin!
'

Voices. Deep, with strange accents.

We've been asleep for hours!

The next thing I know Tarquin's hollering. Men hold him tight. I can't figure out what's up. Have the soldiers caught us? I feel hands on me.
Oh God.
They're pulling me up. They're pulling Lenny up. ‘
Lenny!
' Lenny's hand is ripped from mine. He shouts. Two men haul us along the freight bed: one holds Lenny; I struggle against mine.

Where are we?

‘Right,' says one of the men. He's huge and thin. I feel his muscly arm around me. He's covered in something. His clothes are rough, gritty.

‘Bring 'em down,' someone orders. We're lifted, dragged, shoved to the edge of the wagon beds. We're passed down and along the track. More hands take us.

So many men
. They don't say anything, just hold us tight. They smell strange, sweaty, metallic. I can't move. Tarquin moves, even though he's held by three of them.

‘Just quit struggling, young fella,' grunts one. ‘No one's going to hurt you.'

No one's going to hurt you. They're not soldiers?

‘And you're coming with us whether you like it or no.'

Try to think. Who are they? What's going on?

‘Bring 'em in,' says a man.

And where are we?

No moon. They walk us along a platform, swinging smoky lamps. A freshly repainted sign says: Blaydon-Newburn.
Where's that?
Out of the station. Down a road. Long, stony and beaten out of something dark. On either side: buildings. More and more buildings
. Is this Newcastle?
It's cold. We're marched through freezing darkness.

‘Take them to the football stadium?'

‘No. Up to the council.'

We're led down an alley, through an open place, a black shadow up behind, a bitter wind blowing down, icy cold.

More rows of houses. At last through a wide door. Into an open space. A round table. Maybe an old church hall. Lamplight. They tell us to sit.

We sit.

What's gonna happen now?

Lenny's rigid, as if in a trance. I try to reach him. They smack me back. The man who gives orders goes out. Four stay. They all have this thin, grimy look. Three hold Tarquin in an arm lock. He twists. They hold firm. He can't move. I bite at the side of my lip, clench and unclench my hands.

Lenny grips the chair. Pale as a ghost. ‘Please sir, don't hurt him,' Lenny says. His voice, sweet like birdsong. The men holding Tarquin almost jump. One of them peers forward at Lenny, looks questioningly at the others.

They stare too. They all stare at Lenny, like they're going to eat him. A sudden chill goes down my spine. I heard that in far-off places  … 

Then I remember Nan: ‘
Stuff and lies  …  and wasn't it bad enough to find food without scaremongery? Nobody ever ate a person even if they did eat dogs. And we aren't sunk that low yet. Lord knows we need everybody we've got in this God-forsaken, desolate country  …  and there's still order, even if it's the army  … 
'

The men continue staring at Lenny. I scan the room. The walls are old stone. They've been repaired in places. They look solid, but dirty. Not dust, or filth. Something black and grainy. It's hard to tell in the lamplight. It coats the furniture as well.

Tarquin suddenly twists, tries to break free. The men clamp down on him, force him to bend forwards.

Lenny screams. I jump up. One man springs out, shoves me back in my seat.

‘Stay put.' He snaps the words out so viciously, I'm sprayed with saliva.

Lenny swallows his screaming. I freeze in my seat.

Think.
You thought your way out of Games City and the farm. These people must need something.

Bargain your way free.

But as soon as they come in, I can see what these people need, and I'm absolutely sure I'm not going to be able to give it to them.

They come in – men and more men and more and more men. All coughing. All thin. At last, only three women. I shudder. The women look worn out. They look ill. One's got a strange shaped head. Small. Shrunken. As if her skull's failed to grow.

I don't want to stare, but I find myself staring anyway. So broken, tired. One of the men, a stooping giant, sees me. He glares at me, presses his lips tight.

They carry chairs to the table. They all sit. I run the tip of a finger along the side of my seat. I examine the tiny grains of dark grit imbedded in my skin. I rub them between the pads of my thumb and forefinger. Dry. Hard. Not dirt. Coal dust? We must be somewhere near Newcastle then. The borders of Scotland, even. We've reached the coal mines.

One of the men hawks up phlegm. The sound of it rattling in his chest makes me want to retch.

I fix my eyes on the women. The youngest one looks at me. She's actually not that old. There's something so trampled in the droop of her shoulders though, it makes her look ancient.

‘The council can begin,' says someone. His voice rings with authority. Someone else starts coughing again, hacking, echoey.

‘Evening all.' He's a dry man with skin like leather. ‘We got visitors and this time we struck lucky.'

I don't like the way he says ‘lucky'. Like in the past sometime they struck ‘unlucky'. It makes us sound like street find or spoil.

A few people grunt, ‘Good evening.' There's more coughing. Someone spits on the floor.

‘If we let you go, you'll sit and behave?' says the man to Tarquin. ‘Raise your left hand if you agree.'

Tarquin raises his left hand.

They let him go. He sits next to Lenny and me. There's a pause while everyone seems to be staring away from us, in the direction of something they can't name. Then the man says, ‘You don't move, you hear? And you answer our questions.' He wags a finger at us.

I don't like the wagging any better than the spitting.

‘And you tell the truth and we'll decide what to do with you.'

Immediately I decide to lie.

‘Let's have your story.'

I bring up my head and look him in the eye. I can almost hear Lenny's worry.
Please don't let them stop us going to the cottage.

So I keep my voice clear like a bell, ‘We're looking for a better future.'

So far, so true.

Lenny covers his face. He's trembling. One of the miners breaks into a fresh bout of hawking. I keep my voice steady.
Buy time. Tell them something they'd like to hear.

‘We know it's a tough life up here, but we heard there were jobs in the coal mines, and you're fair and would treat us decent.'

‘Flattery is part of deception. Praise is your ally.' Nan's voice coaches me.

They look at each other. Somebody clears their throat. Another starts coughing again. Deep chest-wracking coughs.

I don't dare look at Tarquin. He never left Careem's gang to work down a coal mine. He
hates
being underground.

I don't let anything show on my face, though. I keep my chin up and say, ‘We were born down south, and we don't complain about life down there, but we're young and we want to help build up this country.'

‘Why did you jump our train?' asks the man. He's not a fool. ‘Why didn't you go to the office down south?'

‘Ain't open,' chips in Tarquin.

‘True,' says one. ‘They don't open, hardly ever.'

‘We didn't have money to pay the fare,' I add.

Always mix a little truth in with a good lie.

‘And there's fellas after you,' says another.

I look at him, don't let my gaze waver.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘We're wanted by soldiers.'

And always tell the truth when you can't get out of it.

‘Now we're getting it,' he laughs.

‘And the General, I'll wager, if he's seen you.'

Study your subject. Lying is an art.

‘Scum,' mutters the oldest woman.

‘We set out on foot,' I say, ‘but they stopped us and sent us to a prison farm. But we've left there and now we're here.'

‘What'll we do?' asks someone in a wheezy voice. ‘Ship 'em back on the next load?'

‘There'll be trouble if we don't.'

‘Maybe,' says the leader. He's looking at Lenny. Suddenly they're all looking at Lenny. He's obviously got something in mind.

He clears his throat. ‘Right. It'll go to a vote then.' He turns to us, his voice suddenly sugary. ‘I'm Alfred Glover, and I'm headman here. We're the Coal Syndicate Owners' Council, of the reopened Newburn and Throckley pits,' he says. ‘We run a cooperative mine here. We make our own decisions, independent of the army. We're going to send you to the houses, while we talk this over.' He smiles at us in a thin-lipped way. ‘So if you've got anything further to add?' He pauses, waits, his smile still stretched taut.

I shake my head.

‘Then you'll wait for our decision. If we let you stay and work, we'll house you and feed you and you'll join the cooperative and sign up to our terms and conditions, according to
our
council rules.'

I don't like the idea of
his
council rules.

‘But if we decide against you, we'll send you back, trussed up like geese if need be.' His smile evaporates. He looks at Tarquin like he'd send him back regardless.

Lenny's face drains of colour. The angle of his jaw sticks out. He clenches the edge of his seat. Tarquin half rises. Instantly I drop my hand over his arm.

The oldest woman comes forward.

I squeeze Tarquin's wrist.

‘I'm Bridey,' she says. She's wrinkled and her voice is slightly scratchy. ‘I'll take you and the little one to mine.'

I can feel his pulse banging.

‘We women live separately from the men. It's our choice. Your fella will have to go with Colin or Bert.' She nods at Tarquin.

‘
Lenny needs to eat,
' I whisper, scared Tarquin will explode.

Bridey tucks her grey hair behind an ear. ‘Don't worry about your family, young man,' she says, seeing his mind. ‘You'll be right next door, and you can talk to each other in the backyards.'

I grip Tarquin harder, whisper, ‘I'll make sure.'

But before she leads us off, Lenny breaks free. He runs to Alfred Glover, cries out: ‘Please don't send us back to the prison farms. We shouldn'ta never gone there. We wasn't doing nothing wrong.'

The woman with the shrunken head leaps up, holds her arms out to Lenny, shrieks out a mangled cry.

Instantly Alfred Glover's on his feet. In one swift movement he crosses to the woman, slaps her arms down, roughly thrusts her back in her chair. As her small misshapen head cracks against the chair back, she cries, ‘No life for a child here!'

No one moves.

Lenny stares first at the woman, then from face to face.

‘We was only trying to go north,' he whispers.